


Longer Then The Sphinx

by aformofmotion



Category: Tin Man (2007)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-15
Updated: 2011-08-15
Packaged: 2018-02-14 07:08:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2182527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aformofmotion/pseuds/aformofmotion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ambrose doesn't like girls, but he likes her. He likes Wyatt Cain, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> _You have slept in the sun_  
>  Longer than the sphinx, and are none the wiser for it  
> ~John Ashbery, "As One Put Drunk Into The Packet-Boat"

He doesn't like girls.  
  
Of course, what six-annual-old boy _does_ like girls, really? They're frilly and icky and have cooties, and your parents always insist that you play with them, even though they never want to do anything _fun_.  
  
There is one girl he doesn't not-like as much as the others. She has brown hair and purple eyes, and she'd rather jump into the lakes to catch frogs than play with dolls.  
  
That almost means it doesn't matter that she's a girl.  
  
Almost.  
  
  
  
All the way through the Academy he expects his attraction to girls to materialize the next Annual. It never does, and when one day he suddenly finds himself with his tongue down another boy's throat he's only half as surprised as he'd expected to be.  
  
He doesn't tell her about that incident. She'd only complain that he got to kiss a boy before she did, and pester him for details that he isn't quite ready to share.  
  
  
  
After graduation she asks him to escort her to a Royal Ball. He shrugs uncomfortably, aware that maybe he's been a bit more discreet than strictly necessary.  
  
"I don't like girls," he says, less tactfully than he would have preferred.  
  
"Oh," she says, frowning. " _Oh!_ I'm sorry, I-"  
  
"But I like _you,_ " he blurts, his mouth obviously no longer taking orders from his brain.  
  
She blinks. "So that's a yes, then?"  
  
  
  
Their first kiss is sweet, and so is every other kiss after it. At no point does their little love affair becomes the sordid, heated passion of the slightly trashy novels he's read -- purely for research purposes, of course.  
  
She laughs like windchimes, her violet eyes sparkling as they teach each other to dance. Sometimes he leads, but usually she does. It works better that way.  
  
That almost makes up for the fact that she's a girl.  
  
Almost.  
  
  
  
In the end, she's the one who breaks it off, laughing, running down the paths of Finaqua toward a man in a balloon who she knows she's going to marry someday. She kisses him, properly, one last time.  
  
"You don't like girls," she tells him, almost but not quite smirking at the confusion on his face. "Remember?"  
  
"But-"  
  
"Maybe someday we'll have matching blond husbands," she says.  
  
"Not sure I like blonds," he mutters.  
  
"So go find out." And she's off again, toward her balloon man.  
  
  
  
He's not heart-broken. Not even close.  
  
They've always been best friends, and he's perfectly happy to walk her down the aisle when she asks. He husband-to-be smiles at him as he hands her off, completely aware of their pasts.  
  
He takes his seat at the front and takes his date's -- not blond, not yet -- hand in his. He almost feels like laughing.  
  
  
  
He has his hand on the doorknob and is about to leave the study when she calls his name. He turns, curious.  
  
She just looks at him for a moment with those lavendar eyes of hers.  
  
"If Ahamo hadn't come along, it would have been you."  
  
He's startled into laughter. "How fortunate for all of us that he did, then. I'd have been a terrible King."


	2. After

There are still things he doesn't remember, even with his brain firmly esconsed in his head. Parts of his memory, big parts, have been completely destroyed or irretrievably damaged by time, exposure, and multiple surgeries. He knows things -- he can recite the Ozian periodic table backwards in his sleep -- and he doesn't forget them anymore. At least, no more than an ordinary person would.  
  
But he can't quite get back to the way he was before. It's frustrating.  
  
They don't treat him any differently. With a few minor exceptions, he resumes his duties as advisor to the Queen. He slides almost seamlessly back into court life. Most of the time that's enough, but sometimes...  
  
He feels like there's something missing. Something important that everyone else can see. He catches them watching him when they think he's not looking. It's enough to make him want to scream.  
  
  
  
"Hey, sweetheart," Cain says, touching his shoulder gently. "Time for lunch."  
  
Ambrose shakes him off in irritation. He's _busy_. "Why do you do that?"  
  
"Do what?" Cain asks, taking a step back at the glare his friend is giving him.  
  
"Call me Sweetheart. You call everyone else by their proper names, even DG. But not me."  
  
"I... didn't know it bothered you."  
  
"Well," he says, crossing his arms. "It does."  
  
"I can see that." The smile he offers is ever so slightly more brittle than usual. "Don't worry, it won't happen again."  
  
  
  
With the sweethearts go all the little things, too. All the little touches he hadn't quite realized he'd come to depend on. The slight pressure of Cain's hand on the small of his back that let him know he was there, waiting patiently for him to finish. The way Cain would catch his elbow to remind him to either eat or sleep before he worked himself into the ground. Cain's knee bumping his under the table to keep his mind from wandering back to work during formal dinners.  
  
For a while, Cain continues to watch him from the doorway while he works, eyes silently burning holes in the back of his head. But these visits grow less and less frequent with each passing day. He assumes Cain has work to do himself; he _is_ the Captain of the Queen's Guard, now, after all.  
  
But the first time he stumbles and Cain isn't there to catch him, he wants to cry.  
  
  
  
The machine in the middle of the room is sapping his strength. Not in a malicious way -- it isn't as if the thing has some sort of intent. He just can't leave it alone: it's become the focal point of his life.  
  
He doesn't know what it is, or what it will do when it's finished. But he feels compelled to work on it to the exclusion of all his other duties. Including his duties to eat and sleep.   
  
Well, having effectively driven Cain away it's not as if there's anyone to remind him.  
  
Oh, they try. He knows they do. But he's blind and deaf to their efforts. DG will bring him food one day and take it away untouched the next. Twice, Raw has come to relieve some of his fatigue using his Viewer abilities. It's not part of his job as Ambassador, but he does it anyway.  
  
He still finds himself dozing off, eyes glazing over, doing the same tasks over and over. He can't stop, though, just works on and on well past the point anyone else would collapse.  
  
When he misses the Queen's Award Ceremony, where he was supposed to receive a medal for his part in helping to defeat the Witch, DG decides that's the last straw.  
  
  
  
"Mister Cain, you have to talk to Glitch," she says.  
  
Cain doesn't even look up. "He doesn't like to be called Glitch anymore."  
  
"I don't care." She stomps her foot and he raises his eyes to look at her. "He'll listen to you."  
  
He snorts and goes back to his paperwork.  
  
"What happened with you two, anyway? You used to be almost attached at the hip."  
  
"People change," he grunts, more to the desk than to her.  
  
"Cain..."  
  
"He wanted me to back off. I backed off."  
  
DG doesn't have anything to say to that. She shuffles her feet awkwardly. "He hasn't been out of his lab in weeks."  
  
"Weeks?" he asks sharply, attention suddenly focused on her.  
  
"Three of them, yeah. He won't come out, he won't eat, I don't think he's been sleeping." Cain frowns. "Please, Mister Cain. You've always been able to get through to him."  
  
"I'll give it a shot," Cain promises.  
  
DG smiles in relief. "Thank you."  
  
  
  
"DG practically ordered me to check up on you," Cain drawls.  
  
"Cain!" he exclaims, turning so quckly his head spins. He grabs the edge of the nearest table for support.  
  
"She's worried about you. We all-" He breaks off when he finally got a good look at the man.  
  
His knuckles are white where he's gripping the table. There are dark, heavy circles under his eyes, which are bright with something Cain can't identify. He can see the other man's veins where his wrists poke out of his long sleeves. He's too thin, too pale, and he's trembling just enough to notice.  
  
"Ambrose?"  
  
He flinches away, raising his hands as if to defend himself. "Don't," he chokes out, voice rough from disuse. It's probably been three weeks since he's spoken, as well. "Please, don't."  
  
Cain approaches warily, hesitant to touch the other man without permission. He needn't have worried; as soon as he's close enough Ambrose throws his arms around him, his knees nearly giving out. Cain draws the slighter man up against his body, one arm wrapped around his waist to support him.  
  
Ambrose clutches at him desperately, bunching the fabric of his jacket in his fists. "Cain, Cain, Cain, Cain, Cain," he says frantically. "I was wrong, I was really, really wrong and I'm sorry, I overreacted, I didn't get it, I didn't know what sweetheart meant but at least it meant _something_ and Ambrose is just, just a _placeholder_ and it hurts and I think I'm falling apart, and I survived _fifteen annuals_ on my own but now I don't know how to be without you and I don't know why and I can't- can't- can't- can't- can't- can't-"  
  
"Whoa, sweetheart," Cain murmurs, the endearment slipping out before he can stop it. Ambrose isn't supposed to be glitching, not now. All the tension seems to drain out of him and he shudders in Cain's arms. "You need to slow down. I think I caught one in every five words."  
  
"You went away," Ambrose mumbles, pressing his face into Cain's shoulder.  
  
"Yeah," Cain says finally. "Never doing that again. Now come on, let's get you to bed, you look about ready to fall over. When you wake up, we'll see about getting some food into you."  
  
  
  
He's awake when she comes to his door in the night. She somehow knows he keeps these hours, though he's sure he never told anyone.  
  
"Majesty," he says, making a respectful gesture that's more curtsy than bow. She sits perched on the end of his bed and for the briefest of moments he thinks, _I remember this_. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"  
  
She looks at him with that same soft expression that hasn't left her face since the Eclipse. "I know these past months haven't been easy for you," she says hesitantly. "I thought it might help you to sort out the life you have now... if you could remember that you don't like girls."  
  
He blinks. "I... _Oh_. Well, that explains..."  
  
He's gone before she can ask what it explains.  
  
  
  
"It's the middle of the night," Cain complains. "This had better be important."  
  
"It is, it is," Ambrose assures him, pacing back and forth across the room. "There was this... _thing_. I couldn't remember. And I tried to figure it out on my own for such a long time but I _couldn't_. But the Queen just handed it to me on a platter and I have to tell you now in case I forget again."  
  
"Right. Fine. Go on, then." He doesn't bother to mention that he doesn't have problems with his memory anymore.  
  
He takes a deep breath. "I don't like girls."  
  
"What?"  
  
"What do you mean 'what'? It's not rocket science, Cain. Read my lips."   
  
He kisses him.


End file.
